


All Smells are Good Smells

by fangirl42



Series: A Dog's Tale [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Liam Cousland, Memories, Other, Rowan the Mabari, stoats are nasty little critters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl42/pseuds/fangirl42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scents are many things – bitter, rich, sweet, vibrant, musty, smooth or rancid – but they are never good or bad. They just are. They tell us things that mere words cannot describe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Smells are Good Smells

All smells are good smells, or so I thought when I was young. Until I met the darkspawn. 

Here in the jungle home of the Man, the smells are often vibrant and intoxicating. Bathed in the warm, moist air of the jungle, they linger, sometimes for weeks at a time. Trapped in little eddies and pockets along the jungle floor, under the large heavy leaves of the undergrowth and hidden in the damp, dark places behind the ever present falls of water. Even after all the time I have spent here, there are still new scents.

It is so different from the cold air of my birth. There the only scent that lingers is the taint. It is a cloying, bitter scent that once it crawls into your nose will not leave. Perhaps it is because the smell of the taint became so intertwined with the scent of the Boy and the First that I smell it still at times. Blowing in on the infrequent southerly winds, it startles me into alertness.

On this day, the wind has shifted and on it is carried the faint odor of death and corruption that is the darkspawn perfume. It brings back unpleasant memories and I lurch stiffly to my feet. Always when I catch this scent, my hackles rise and the urge to hunt and kill rises with them. Today is no exception, until my body fails me.

I am old and my joints complain at the attempt to fly into action. I get no further than the doorway to the Man’s room when I know that if there were truly darkspawn here, they would find me no threat. It galls, this weakness, so I turn and wander down the hall to seek what food I can connive from the cook. At least, in the kitchen, it will be warm.

As I pad down the hall, I turn my thoughts away from the darkspawn, away from the memories of the horde and the demon that threaten to overtake me. Today is not the day to remember the end, the merest hint of which brings such pain to my heart. So I look back. Back to before we knew of the darkspawn, before the Traitor slew our family, before we grew out of our innocence. Back to a time when I believed there was no such thing as a bad smell.

To a Mabari, such things are true. Scents are many things – bitter, rich, sweet, vibrant, musty, smooth or rancid – but they are never good or bad. They just are. They tell us things that mere words cannot describe. So when I find things that carry a new scent, one that I find fascinating, I bring them to the Boy.

It is from him I learn that some things smelled bad. Not because they are evil, like the darkspawn, but because the strong odor makes the Boy, or more accurately the Boy’s mam, uncomfortable. It is a difficult lesson to learn. 

It helps that it involves a great deal of harsh soap and vinegar. 

Spring in Highever starts as cold rain and harsh wind. It lasts far too long yet we greet it with a glad heart as it signals the end of the long winter. The spring rains keep us inside, mocking us with the promise of warmth to come, of freedom from the unrelenting snow and freezing air that lingers so long in the mountains. The Boy and I spend our first day of freedom after a long week trapped inside the castle walls running. Finally able to be outside makes us giddy.

The mud is wonderful. Squishing between my toes and churning up the deep dark scent of earth, decaying leaves and small crawling things just venturing out of their slumber. It has a scent all its own, Highever mud. Soon, the two of us are covered in it.

I catch the scent of something new after rolling in the mud with the Boy. It is pungent and powerful and sets off all sorts of alarms in the deep dark recesses of my mind. Alarms that I ignore. I must find this scent and I take off deeper into the woods where we play, determined to find whatever creature belongs to this odor.

The Boy follows, laughing and calling out to me. I track the scent into underbrush at the base of one of the largest trees in these woods. Hidden beneath the bush, the nearly empty branches sporting the first buds of spring, is a hole. Whatever belongs to the scent that’s driving me mad lives down that hole.

I begin to dig, chuffing and barking in my excitement. The Boy, who had fallen behind, catches up to me as I begin to dig. With a bright peal of laughter, he adds his hands to my paws. Our frantic scratching alerts the resident and I catch a bright flash of a black tail before literally drowning in the scent as a warm spray hits my face.

The Boy squeals and backs away, gagging. The full force of the musk in my nose is too much and I begin to sneeze and then rub my face against the ground. The scent is overwhelming now, bringing tears to my eyes with its harshness. 

Thus begins my first encounter with the infamous Highever stoat.

A smallish rodent-like creature covered in white winter fur with a distinctive black tail, this particular specimen looses its warning spray and burrows deeper into its den. Not that I see it. I am far too busy trying to rid myself of the burning fluid that threatens to overwhelm me. The Boy staggers back, coughing and retching as much from the over-powering odor wafting off me as what splashed on him. The odor is so tremendous that it encompasses my entire world. I scent nothing else, not the leaves, the mud, not the Boy or even myself.

I whine, scratching at my nose and look up at the Boy. He covers his nose with his arm and motions for me to follow. Morosely, we head back towards the castle, the bright joy of the day diminished. We stop once, to try and wash off the scent. The Boy scrubs at my face with leaves and water stopping twice to vomit as the stoat’s musk proves too much. Eyes watering and covered in mud, he sighs and gives up. 

Our return is greeted with cries of outrage and distress. Strong hands herd us to the back of the castle where we are doused in water, then scrubbed with harsh soap and finally nearly drowned in something that smells of vinegar and natron.

I am confined to the stables and denied entrance to the house. The Boy howls at this, indignant on my behalf before a quick cuff at his ear cuts off his words. He is marched off to his rooms and the door closes in my face. 

The next day, the Boy and I suffer through yet another vigorous scrubbing before being deemed acceptable. I can still scent the pungent odor lingering faintly on both of us but the humans cannot. The rain has returned and we sulk in the Boy’s room. It does not last, of course. We are far too young to long hold a grudge and the evening finds us curled up in front of the fireplace in the family den, stuffed full of good food.

The fire in the Man’s kitchen is as warm as that one long ago in Highever but it lacks the true warmth of our family’s love. Still, my belly is full and for now my body’s hurts are eased as I stretch out in front of it with a deep sigh. In the years between my memory and now, the Boy and I encounter the telltale musk of the Highever stoat many times, but never from such close quarters. We learn our lesson well.

Some smells should be avoided.


End file.
